abraxaslogs | [open;] if the dust in my pocket were silver or gold

Entry tags:

[open;] if the dust in my pocket were silver or gold

WHO: Cloud Strife and your character! (Hopefully.)
WHAT: A few of the dive bars in Cadens are favourites of lower-ranking members of the military for multiple reasons. Some examples of which are a "don't ask, don't tell" ethos, cheap drinks, and more recently? Gambling. Tournaments are held infrequently at a few back-alley bars within the capital, with the prize pot going to the victor. Seeking funds, Cloud has decided to participate.
WHEN: End of October!
WHERE: Cadens
WARNINGS: Poor depictions of violence, probably.

NOTES: I wasn't going to do a tournament is actually happening right now tag but if you want your character to participate, PM me! I'll put one up!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Recent life, for him, had been a rapid succession of varying tasks. Sleeping. Tidying. Eating. Helping clear the mess hall. Drills. Guard duty. More drills. More guarding. ...Maybe, even sometimes, the odd escort objective- always under convoy, and always with enough superiors to make running impossible.

Eating again, tidying, again... and then sleeping. Mostly because he wanted to avoid the more social aspects of living in close quarters with a bunch of people he sure as hell didn't know.

Didn't mean he didn't hear them talking though.
There were a few things he'd picked up on. Mostly bullshit, actually. The petty kind of he said, she said bullshit that only really surfaces around people spending 24 hours of a day around each other, but a couple of prominent things, other things, had been noted.

Some disease in Formalhaut- a city under the territories.

Libertas- another city in the territories- pissing off the other nations with some interesting takes on modern art depicting the other nation's leaders and... varying animals. (By the by? That one's gross- and discarded quickly.)

Most interestingly? Well, what had led him to break curfew and head out. That Cadens, apparently, hosted a couple of bars that were rumoured to offer easy money. That one had been half-discarded. He'd been around Wall Market. Easy money? Yeah, no thanks.

What had prevented him from overlooking it was the means of earning being explained. And honestly? There wasn't exactly anything seedy or sketchy about being part of a group of people beating the shit out of each other for a crowd's amusement.

So. Here he is- in a waiting area, of sorts (which honestly, is just a tenth of the bar space, cordoned off with a flimsy rope) back against the wall, and head down- saying nothing, doing nothing, in a pack of maybe 10 other people, getting their fill of drink and... other substances before their name is called.]

...

[What's he doing?
Focusing.]

There's a sudden murmur among the other contestants as Cloud focuses as the rope is pulled back and another prospective fighter enters. Goro steps into the waiting area, cracking his neck from side to side as he does so.

This is certainly a far cry from the great Tournament he once presided over as Grand Champion for 500 years, but it is an opportunity to make some coin, and while Goro is loathe to have to lower himself to such base concerns, this is still more pleasing to him than working in the outpost armoury or delivering messages. This is warrior's work, and as Goro surveys the crowd of pitfighters—many of whom are staring at the four-armed giant and suddenly reconsidering their chances—he sees no others who could claim to that title...

...Except one. His eyes narrow as he sees Cloud. Another of the summoned, the brooding human. He's left Goro alone, and Goro has seen fit to return the favour, but Cloud's presence here is interesting. The Shokan had already thought he had the look of a fighter. Perhaps this tournament will be more interesting than he thought.

He approaches Cloud, the other fighters parting quickly to let Goro through. He looks down at the green-eyed man. "Last long enough to face me in the tournament." He rumbles. "So that I may properly test your might."

Just the sound of Goro's neck cracking is... well, massive. The sound of that, something so minor- something as unconsidered as that- is louder than most of the ambient sounds of the bar, and the hush that falls over the other fighters is profound- some of them slipping under the rope rather than actually fight the monster of a man that appeared.

It should be. And they should withdraw. Most of them have no business fighting anyone that knows what they're doing, let alone him.

Goro, to everyone within the bar, is a giant- with a form as unyielding as stone, what looks like... an actual skull... on his loincloth, and of course, there's the arms. Each of his four fists is easily the size of Cloud's head.

Is he a monster?
At first, he thinks yeah. He must be. And it's not the first time he's fought under a lack of rules to prohibit monsters from an arena. But then he reconsiders. Goro speaks and... monsters don't do that. They're not possessive of any grasp of language and this man(?) seems well-spoken bordering on flowery. His eyes flick up to him. All the way up to him- now that he's standing before him he's waist height at best. There's a long way for them to go to meet his face- and they linger there for a long while.

He says nothing. His eyes perhaps show a faint flicker of a very reasonable fear behind their coldness, but they don't leave his face. Goro's clocked him well enough. Unlike the other fighters, he knows better than to actually show that fear. And as another person moves out of the waiting area...

"Might not need to last."

The competition are dropping like flies. Yet he doesn't move.

"Good." Goro replies, staring down at Cloud with faint amusement; indeed, many of the fighters have ducked out now, to the consternation of the crowd. One suspects bets had already been placed before he arrived, bets that are rapidly becoming voided. "No need to waste time on the chaff. You and I are the only fighters here of any import."

At least that's what he's hoping, since they were both summoned. Cloud is doing better than most humans do when confronted by a Shokan, at least. There's fear there, yes. There's usually fear, but Cloud seems to have it under control...for now. In the ring may be an entirely different matter.

Goro squints and leans down, closer to Cloud, his expression searching. "Your eyes. I have never met a human with eyes that look like that." A sign perhaps that Cloud is something more than average?

The sounds of the crowd- of people exclaiming disappointed noises, and some, apparently more than a couple of drinks in, berating those that decide to exit- can be heard in faint bursts around them. Yet Cloud's not listening to them. He's turned his gaze away from Goro, his stance rigid, face unmoving, but his gaze flicking between the remaining fighters. Two, three, four, five remaining?

A larger, bearded man possessing two viciously curved axes looks unsure.
He's staring at Goro's back- and it's clear on his subject's face- the way his lower lip seems to quiver underneath his mess of a beard seems he's having a word with himself. But the way his body trembles under the influence of what he's taken, the way his veins on muscled, filthy arms stand up from the skin, the voice of reason is deeply embattled against the substance he's taken to amp himself up.

He roars, suddenly- deciding to establish his masculinity by grabbing the man closest to him- a strange-looking man with a bald head and a scimitar that looks well beyond what he could possibly hope to afford- and forcing his face into the wall. Then he retreats under the rope to open booing.

...Okay, he thinks. So three remaining. That's good. Less opportunity for someone to an injury that's going to follow him into the next match, but there's Goro. That's going to be an ordeal unto itself. He shifts on his feet, reaffirming his gaze upward. Even though Goro's leaning down, he still has to crane his neck to do so.

"I ain't here to trade compliments." He responds, tone brisk enough to infer indifference, yet if Goro were attentive, he'd easily see how uncomfortable he was. It's characterized clearly. The way his fingertips dig into his arms, the way his breathing hitches- but he still stares upward. It's as if he's experienced unwanted attention from someone that frankly? scares the shit out of him before.

His discomfort with... well, said compliments, stem from the fact they're coming from someone who clearly looks capable of ending him. Not just winning a tournament, but actually breaking him in two. And that kind of attention, from someone like that? Yeah, it's turning into a regular thing.

Instinctively, he moves his gaze away when his eyes are mentioned. Great. He can't help but think, sardonically- as a vague strategy of exploiting a preconceived notion of brawn equalling stupidity slips away from him. He's big, but he's not stupid.

"... You done yet?" He asks, hopefully dismissively. Though in all actuality? More in the manner of a small dog trying to present itself as a big one. And failing.

Goro is familiar with expressions of unease, the small signs of terror and fear that he tends to inspire in humans. It's part of what caused him to notice Cloud's eyes; in many of Goro's interactions with humans of Earthrealm, they tend to open quite wide just before the end.

So despite his efforts, Cloud is an open book to the Shokan, who's lips part in a knowing grin, a low chuckle emanating from his throat as the other fighter withdraws, but not before proving...something. Goro hears the altercation but doesn't bother to watch. Only those insecure in their strength need resort to such petty displays, and Goro stands completely relaxed. He's the only one.

"I wonder if perhaps I was mistaken." Goro muses, watching Cloud. "You hide it better than most, but you are ruled by fear. So palpable I can smell it."

One of the other remaining fighters, a big man himself, or at least someone who thought of himself as big until Goro rolled up, has been watching everything going on, sweat beading from his brow. He reeked of alcohol and other intoxicants when he first entered, and Goro plus the play at dominance by the other fled fighter have put him increasingly on edge. He stares at Goro's back, clearly psyching himself up, his face a mask of terror and fool's courage. Whatever is going through his addled brain, he takes a shaky step forward, hesitates, and then charges the Shokan, and with a scream of half terror and rage throws a punch directly into his lower back. There's power behind it.

And it barely rocks Goro. The bar goes deadly silent as the Shokan turns around from Cloud and sees the would-be assailant. One of his lower arms grabs the man's arm, still outstretched from the panicked attack. He watches the man squirm for a moment...and then twists.

The man shrieks with pain as Goro releases him, falling to the floor and clutching his broken arm. For his part, Goro merely wipes his lower hands together, as though he'd just finished a chore.

"I was mistaken about all of this. There are no warriors here. Only the desperate and children."

Ruled by it. That's... certainly accurate, yet that fear is nothing alike the (logical) one the fairer of the two is experiencing at the sight of the Shokan. This fear isn't something that rules him. It's prevalent, yes. Highly so- but it's something in the moment. It's something that can be useful- something that would make him careful, something that would make him tactical- something useful.

The other fear- the one that controls him- is nothing useful.

A quiet breath of a snort escapes him. His eyes narrow- the swirling flecks of acid green on chemical blue sharpen and his mouth curls- as if to snap something unkind back- but nothing comes. Instead, he can hear some lumbering in the background, quiet whispers turn into a hush, one, two, three large, heavy footsteps and-

He's sure as hell not about to warn him.
He's not about to say anything at what seems to be the beginning of the others evening thier odds for the battles to come. But he would worry what's to happen to him.

That some blow, somewhere important- a kidney or at the back of Goro's (Honestly? Probably weak comparatively, considering what they have to support.) legs would have this mountain of a combatant forced forward, with only himself in his path before the wall, but Goro doesn't move. Hell. He barely sees his skin(?) ripple at what would surely be a blow that sounded like it could sure as hell put most men out.

The hush is now dead silence.
A glass even drops.

And he's speechless as he takes a single step to the side, just to view past Goro's... breadth... to see what's happened. The lower arms work. His face, as he watches the man, a man easily a good foot taller, easily a good foot wider than himself wriggle like a boy behind held by an adult is profound. A look of dismay crosses his face before...

snap.

There's a shriek. Whether it's the man or an onlooker... he honestly doesn't know. But the arm's broken, all right. Viciously. Cloud was a man who had seen violence. A lot of it. But the way that arm's sticking upward when it has no right to...
He feels sick.

He catches the latter half of the next statement. What he said before, about warriors...

"...You..."

Don't be sick.

"It's a bar tournament. You expected more than drunks and junkies?"

Normally, such an action, Goro should have been eliminated. Snide jabs were one thing, if done discreetly. Breaking someone's arm was something else. But even the bar's designated heavies- rough, surly types which, fortunately, seem to be mostly sober- seem to be trying to palm off actually removing the Shokan.

"And which are you?" Goro asks, turning to face Cloud, resuming their conversation as though he hadn't just maimed a man. "He attacked me from behind, before the tournament began." He gestures to the man writhing on the floor, crying for help that no one seems eager to give since it would put them within arm's reach of Goro, and they've just seen what he can, and apparently will, do. "He will live." So, no big deal, apparently.

"How am I to test my strength without worthy opponents to face? To fight a weakling tells me nothing. Pah." He turns away again, with a dismissive wave of his upper arm. "There is nothing for me here. The outcome is already decided, and that does not interest me."

Stepping over the mauled, sobbing man, Goro heads for the ropes, the remaining fighters eager to get out of his way. "I will take the tournament purse, however, as compensation for my wasted evening." As he said, the outcome was already decided, was it not? No reason Goro should walk away completely empty-handed.

[ooc: Thank you for being patient with the timing of my responses!]

I'm supposed to be the upset. He answers, at least in his thoughts. Because that's what he planned. Sneak out of the barracks, tour a couple of the fighting rings, knock around some people that probably had it coming anyway, and make some money. Get used to the way things were done in these things by playing nice until he knew enough about the inner workings to rig some bets, manipulate some greed, and make more than the pittances offered as prizes.

But he's hardly that now. Goro- for all Cloud's intent and all of Cloud's purpose- had well and truly taken that role.

But he doesn't answer. Instead, he simply glowers- reduced to... well, silence. Because yeah. Like hell he was going to come out with that where any of the onlookers could easily see and easily hear him. So... it's not his finest moment. He's reduced to glowering, silently, as the wretch of what was the combatant whines quietly to himself (and his screwed up arm) right behind the Shokan.

But then the comment about the tournament purse is announced, and he steps forward.

"You ain't getting it until you win. Those're the rules. I haven't withdrawn, so if you bail without fighting me? That's nothing but theft."

He's afraid. Of course he's afraid. Being afraid meant he wasn't entirely out of his mind. But he's seen enough to formulate a point of attack, and he's ready. And snappishly:

"Thought you were a warrior."

[ooc: Not a problem at all!]

Goro stops at the rope, hand on it to toss it aside, as Cloud taunts him. "You two." He doesn't even look at the other two remaining fighters. "Leave." They don't need further encouragement and quickly duck under the rope and flee. There's no booing from the crowd this time. The show going on in front of them between Shokan and SOLDIER is far more interesting.

"By the time the sun rises you will know pain far more intimately than you ever have before." Goro continues once they're gone. Someone finally manages to muster the courage to dart in and pull the wounded, wimpering fighter away leaving only the two of them. "In ways you never knew it was possible to be hurt. I have had 3500 years to perfect my art, and tonight your body will be my canvas." Goro turns to face Cloud now, stepping forward. "But I will not kill you. Consider that my mercy...and prepare for kombat."

This elicits a cheer from the crowd. How quickly the mood turns from being terrified of Goro to the promise of a truly excellent fight. New bets are quickly placed at the bar. Quite a few for Goro, but Cloud's apparent fearlessness won over more than a few patrons who shout his name along with their bet. Goro keeps his eyes locked on Cloud, however. There's anger in his eyes.

Edited 2021-11-05 02:57 (UTC)

He wouldn't want to guess the odds for Goro in this fight. The odds aren't in his favour, that's for damn sure- and despite a handful of patrons betting on him, the majority of the bar, obviously, is for Goro. He can't be too insulted. Either the clientele isn't half as stupid as he previously gave them credit for, or this place waters down their drinks.

More importantly, he's got to look less at their actions, and look out for himself.

He's silent as Goro thunders out his intent. His only real chance, he's sure, is that those 3500 years have allowed the other to get arrogant too, or at the very least- came with a few bad habits to exploit. Because honestly? From the sheer size, power, and... broadness... of Goro, he's guessing his kind have a hell of a lot longer in their lives than that timeframe. It's hard to tell, given the fact he's so different. But be doesn't look past his prime. Not at all.

Following that... declaration... Cloud's silent, moving his eyes away from the Shokan. Yet it's hardly cowardice. He's staring- intently- at a tiny little doorway that leads out into an alley. For it was that alley where matches usually happened. And just like before, he needs to focus.

And as it opens...
He walks toward it without a single word. And yes. He's picking up that fancy-looking scimitar on the ground as he goes. There's whispers as he moves. Some jeers about deathmarches, about an execution. But he says nothing... save for one thing.

"C'mon, gramps."

Maybe he can start by using that anger against him.

"Not even close." Goro returns the taunt with a smug grin. He notes the retrieval of the scimitar, but considers it trivial. The human must have something to at least make it approach the semblance of a fair fight, after all. He lets Cloud enter the alley first and then...

with...some...difficulty, Goro manages to squeeze his bulk through the entirely not built to Shokan scale door, but it does take a few moments. From behind him in the bar he hears a snicker, but a quick turn and glare (accompanied by an all-too animalistic growl) shuts whoever the would-be heckler was up quickly.

Once out, he examines the alley with a practiced indifference. "Tight quarters, no place to retreat to." He notes, wiping the sandstone wall of the alley with a single thick, black-nailed finger, idly examining it, and then rubbing the remains away. "Hardly ideal for you." Of course the fact that it means Goro might have a harder time given how much larger and wider he is in the cramped alley goes unsaid. It makes little difference if he can just get his hands on Cloud, which should not be too difficult to manage, sword or not.

"Keep thinking that."

He's... full of bravado, but Goro's right in a lot of ways. The alleyway is tight- tight enough for him, if he really wanted, to extend his upper arms and touch each wall. The dirt pathway between them is mostly viable purchase- though the fights beforehand (most notably close to the walls) is slippery with old blood, brain matter, vomit, and who knew what else.

Winning's still a possibility, if only in Cloud's mind. It's a dogged one- stubborn to leave- but thankfully (for him) a strategy of survival isn't absent. It mostly revolves around not allowing Goro a chance to get hold of him. Small strikes. Nothing flashy. Getting clear. Another one. Getting clear.

It's endurance more than power. And-

The crowd, heckler and all, by now have moved up two flights of stairs onto balconies which, more than likely, were designed for drying clothes, but repurposed by an enterprising bar owner to serve as viewing platforms. Cloud's only really aware of the fact the match should be underway by a shout from above- of Just get on with it! and a glass shattering, thrown from above, at the wall behind him.

He inhales.
And he turns the scimitar in his hand.

How long has it been since he used anything singlehanded?

Just fucking fiiiiight!

Another glass.

The glass is sailing through the air. Goro lowers himself into an attack position. The angry onlooker yells. Power building in his legs. The glass shatters on the ground.

Goro leaps.

From where he stands at the end of the alley, the Shokan suddenly propels himself forward into the air, raising all four fists as he does so to bring them down on Cloud as hammerblows. Apparently, he doesn't intend for this to be a very long fight.

The saving grace is that he doesn't have the clearance to put his full amount of power into the jump, constrained as he is by the tight confines of the alley, but it's still going to hurt if even one of his fists manages to connect.

As impressive borderline horrifying as Goro's leap is, fortunately, it does not connect. While Goro indeed has the edge on Cloud in terms of bulk, that very fact in itself has a slight disadvantage. His form, the sheer amount of weight he carries around with him means that movements like that are telegraphed. And at the leap, instead of obeying his instinct (anyone's instinct) to flee backward, Cloud moves forward in a small dash.

It's tight. Of course it's tight- even with the power Goro should have in his legs, his weight alone should ensure the leap isn't going to get him that far off the ground- but he succeeds, mostly, in evading the attack and getting behind him with a roll. And then, instantly, he uses his position to aim a vicious kick to the back of one of the Shokan's knees.

Goro might then notice something.

By appearance, Cloud is a lean man. Scrawny even- with some muscle, sure. But nothing remarkable. But the force in which the blow should strike the back of his joint- should it even land at all- should be significant. It should feel less like a blow by one man- more like a blow by twenty. And that, given the fact that the blonde gives no indication of such strength, no feasible sign of it- might be surprising.

Cloud, himself, doesn't know if it's enough to stagger him. Hell- what was enough to dislocate a human's knee from the off might mean nothing to someone like Goro. He'd fought monsters, but never anything like this before. So regardless, he's not greedy. He doesn't linger afterward- doesn't chance more attacks- instead darting right back.

To boos, of course. Some abuse is thrown, in more glasses, and jeers from a crowd expecting blood, and quickly.

As the kick connects, for the first time that night, Goro feels pain, and actually stumbles as he lands, not connecting with Cloud. He doesn't fall, but the stumble is noticeable after the other fighter failed to do anything to him other than attract Goro's attention. He grunts, and then swings back around, and nods at Cloud.

"First blood. I give you points for that." He acknowledges, beginning to advance, farther into the alley. "I knew you were more than human. Good. Then we shall do this properly...as warriors."

And then he charges. He brings up his lower arms in defensive positions to block anymore incoming attacks to his center of mass. But his upper arms are ready for an attack. A downward strike from the left, a right hook from the other. This time he leaves nowhere for Cloud to move other than to retreat, or attempt to face the attack. Goro accepts that sword will bloody him, since Cloud can put some power behind the swing, but Shokan skin is tough. And a fight where he doesn't bleed is hardly a fight at all.

That's the left leg.

It didn't do much. But the monster of a man clearly felt it, so concentrating on it with future opportunities wouldn't be useless. He can make it into something- and it's a start. All he needed was a start, and he got one. He just has to stay focused, and-

Goro's talking again.
His eyes narrow- tellingly- at the insinuation he's not human- and although, clearly, it wasn't intended as a taunt, he's taking it as one. And it affects him.

"Shut the-"

Massive mistake. He's open - so much so that Goro's subsequent charge is undodgable. All he can do is attempt to defend, and being righthanded, Goro's left- the downward strike- is met with the sword. Using both arms, Cloud attempts to hold the sword, blade up, to meet Goro's fist- but again, he's open.

The right hook- from a hand easily as big as his head- lands. And the force of both blows is massive. The sword bends against Goro's left fist. Perhaps striking the sharpened blade bloodies him, but the sword, by far, comes off worse. It in itself buckles- resembling a boomerang at the impact, being forced out of his hands, and clattering on the ground.

He would be pissed. Because selling that thing at the end of this was about the only way he was thinking he'd be sure of some money- but Goro's right hook is far more of a pressing concern. Especially as it lands.

The force of it is enough to knock him sideways- smashing his body against the side of the alleyway's filthy brick wall- shuddering it, and the balcony connected to it, and even leaving a series of long cracks.

He slumps to the ground, face down, and the audience, of course, think it's over. That blow was enough to break anyone's neck. At the very least, it's enough to shatter every bone at the side of someone's face- and it seems that's the impression the crowd come to as the blonde lies there, motionless.

Is he pretending, or is he really out?

Goro hadn't actually intended to throw Cloud off. In a roundabout, backhanded sort of way, it had been intended as something of a complement. Finally, something here at least resembling a challenge. It actually gets his hopes up for moment, only to be dashed within seconds as Cloud immediately falls under his follow-up assault. The sword does manage to draw some blood, but Shokan hides are tough, and Goro's bled worse than this. Regarding the cut on his arm for a moment, he turns to regard the fallen Cloud with distaste.

"Hrm. Disappointing." He spits. He approaches the prone SOLDIER, examines him for a moment, and then reaches for one of Cloud's arms to pull him up by it. Try to see if he really is out cold (or dead, possibly, given the strength with which he hit the wall)...or quite possibly leave himself open to attack, if Cloud is indeed faking. But if Goro has considered that possibility, he's clearly not worried about it.

[Since... well, he didn't exactly have a weapon yet, he'd gone into this light. And hand-to-hand combat was hardly a strength of his. Let alone disarming someone and using their weapon against them.

So yes- he's taken a hell of a beating. He's bruised in varying places- bloody even- the side of his head smeared in a vaguely sticky substance he's not entirely sure is his own or someone else's- but honestly? From the way he's walking it hardly seems as if he's all that bothered by it. Unusual? Certainly. Something to be questioned?

Well, that would depend on the person observing him.

Regardless, tonight he's a winner. He moves through the (pathetically) small amount of bar patrons right to the bar itself, bright eyes cold.]

My pay?

[His eyes narrow at the person behind the bar. The organizer, presumably?]

Don't give me any crap about your commission going up. I've earned it and you know it.

Edited (clarity!) 2021-10-27 00:31 (UTC)

[ sam had heard rumors, but hadn't exactly been thrilled to hear about an underground fighting ring set up in the city of cadens. it was definitely of the hush-hush variety, he knew that, but his curiosity turned to worry as soon as he knew there could be a chance that newcomers - people who didn't know the history of the place, who might not even be aware of what's actually happening, could end up there.

sam heads down to the tournament with only one goal in mind - to step in, if need be, and to make sure any summoneds who he hasn't had the chance to run into know who he is and where to find him, if need be.

the fights themselves are brutal - not unheard of, or impossible, but tough. he watches his fair share of matches that are uneven, some more so than others. there's one in particular who stands out a bit more than the others. and he leaves the rink looking a little worse for wear. sam works his way around the small crowd to try and catch up to him, only able to really get close enough right when he says about something about commissions and earning it.

sam, to his credit, doesn't immediately step in. but when the organizer looks up and sees him standing just a few feet behind, sam holds his gaze. just for long enough to - apparently - convince him to pay up, and he does, sliding the coin across the bar to the blond and making some comment under his breath sam can't quite make out. all the same, sam takes the chance to step up closer. friendly. ]

Hey- you really held your own out there.

[Something seems to shift. He's haggled enough about pay to have a sense of when it isn't going to happen- and the barkeep is going a strong impression that after all of that, the best he can hope for is a drink and a moldy rag to put against his face.

He doesn't know Sam's behind him, and he sure as hell doesn't know about the influence the other man seems to have upon the owner. But something shifts. He's slid a small bag of money hard enough across the bartop to stand a good chance of bypassing him entirely and bursting open on the floor- but perhaps tellingly to Sam, his reactions are quick. Too quick for most, but his hand slams down atop the bag, and the contents are emptied out.

Looks like the barkeep took at least half.
Bastard.]

Asshole.

[The murmur is countered instantly, though whether it's from his lack of pay, the murmur itself, or something else entirely? Who knows. The coins are transferred to the pocket of his trousers- perhaps Sam would notice they're military ones, belonging to the Free Cities armed forces- and puts his hand in the bag, resting that against the side of his face.

But then he notices he's being spoken to.]

You running something similar?

[A flick of his eyes to him. They're an unnatural, chemical blue, ringed in green. Ludicrously bright- shaped wide, as if the man is still young- still impressionable- but any impression of innocence is flawed by the fact they're narrowed.
In the dim, almost black gloom of the bar, it's almost as if they're glowing with a light of their own.]

Hope you pay more than that dick.

[ sam doesn't really know the extent to what the blond had been trying for, or what he was owed. all he does know is that the man behind the bar is smart enough to know what sam's look means, and slides across some of that coin in the end. sam feels better knowing that whoever this new one is, they've at least been paid for the effort and time he's put into the fight - but when he turns around to face sam, he needs a moment to be startled by the look in his eyes.

bright but also dark, hardened, and yet impossibly young. sam looks at them for a second long before he's able to actually blink, pulling himself back to what he's doing here, why he walked over at all.

his brows lift at the question, noting the military issue clothing. the tense but practiced hold of his shoulders. the military training in him isn't a hard thing to recognize - sam's spent more of his lifetime around similar looks and feels than not. ]

An underground fight ring? Or a scam? 'cause the answer's neither. [ he holds out a hand to shake - a silent prayer immediately going up, once again, that this one knows what a handshake it. ]

My name's Sam.

Cloud.

[His gaze drops to the sight of Sam's extended hand- registering the gesture for what it is, and the hand cradling the dirty bag to the side of his face tightens slightly as if in some faint anxiety, but he doesn't move to shake it.

His gaze moves away, across the bar, and it seems a faint exhale is being held back... almost as if he's willing himself to stay hardened. As if he's rearranging a front just a little more, raising the walls kept around himself.

Then his gaze returns. And perhaps harshly, a little too harshly than the situation calls for:]

So what do you want?

[He peels the bag from his face. No pain. Right, so it was someone else's blood. That's something. It's placed, with a faint amount of disgust, to the side of him, atop the bar... where it instantly starts to seep some of the substance into some spilled liquor. ]

[ ah, so that's how it is. sam notices the hesitancy of the shake, that he gives his name but doesn't quite allow himself to reach back out for it. sam, now more curious than even before, watches those eyes shoot across the room and then come back to him, as harsh as ever.

sam doesn't react to the edge to them, brows lifting briefly, a friendliness to it almost in spite of the hardened reaction. it's a defensive mechanism, he's assuming. which just means he needs to take this a little slower ]

To talk to you, for one. [ sam's eyes go to the rag, the blood on the blonde, one of his brows lifting a bit higher. he'd watched the fight, knew that it wasn't his blood, necessarily, but that doesn't always mean he doesn't need to watch it when he's walking around. ] I can offer food on my dime and a chance for you to get cleaned up, in exchange. It won't be long.

Why? You don't know me. I don't know you. So if you want to talk to someone that badly, try one of these drunks- or get a damn dog.

[Sam does not deserve this.
He absolutely does not deserve this.

But the blonde honestly thinks his pretense, his mask, isn't full of holes. He thinks there's no vulnerability in his face beneath his scowl- he thinks Sam hasn't pegged him for what he is- reeling, uncertain, and spiraling in a world that doesn't make any sort of sense. So yeah, he's building his walls higher. And his hand closes, tighter, on his meager pay.

He's assuming, wrongly, of course, that Sam sees him as a mark. Some idiot with some money, and that he's planning on relieving him of it in some back alley when he steps outside.

Why?
Because that kind of thing happened where he was from. It's about the only logical reason he can think of for this kindness- it being feigned.]

[ there it is - as if on cue, or perhaps it's just that sam has been doing this for long enough to know when to expect it. the offering, the simple gesture, and in response there is one of three things. first, an acceptance, albeit hesitant. second, enthusiasm. or, third, this - a lashing out, barbed walls, someone so used to violence or betrayal that they can't let themselves take a chance, especially if it seems too good to be true.

it's why sam's lifted brow holds, even through the sharp words. he doesn't seem to be affected by the tone, either, not scared off or even surprised by it. ]

No- we don't really know each other. But I can probably take a guess at a few things that I assumed you wouldn't want to chat about where half the city's underground can hear. And- you know- I also figured you wouldn't turn down a free meal. But hey, I've been wrong before. [ he shrugs - because while he hadn't really wanted to push off this conversation for longer, if he could help it, he's also not one to force himself into someone's space. especially when that someone was keen to not let anyone in.

sam sighs, letting a hand come up to rub at the back of his neck. his eyes drift to the space immediately around them, as if checking to see how close the others were, just how much immediate privacy they might have. ] Listen- Cloud. You're new around here, yeah? Just came through the well? [ a beat, and then sam's hand drops, his attention fully on the other again with a kind of gentle seriousness. ] It won't take long, and you can leave whenever you want, but I'm pretty sure you have questions that you're not super comfortable with asking the people that are from here.

[The hustle, bustle, varying chatter and random assorted laughter of the bar is more or less a constant wave of sound- forming a cacophony of general noise almost impossible to pick specifics out of without heavy concentration.

Yet as there's a loud bang, it dies to nothing.
One voice can then be heard. And it sounds indignant.]

Yeah? And I'm tellin' you, half the shit you put into yourself before you fought ain't exactly sticking to the rules either. Didn't make you any stronger- you lost. Get over it.

[He's shoved. Right into a table, actually- and despite the fact that glasses are certainly upset, the people huddled around it both yell and shriek- and a loud Oi! from the person behind the bar is certainly heard, he's up quickly. And he's in the shover's face just as quickly. Should Ciri look over, she'd see a .... well. Vertically challenged man in military trousers, military boots, and a plain vest get right into someone much taller, and much wider than him's business.]

You think crying about it and calling cheating makes you look any stronger? You're pathetic.

[He doesn't move to strike him in turn. Instead, he turns his back.]

I'm out.

[Oh no. He's got no idea that the man's now drawn his sword.
What do, Ciri.]

Edited 2021-10-27 00:58 (UTC)

[ At the shouting and complaining, Ciri only rolls her eyes and grabs a tighter hold of her mug of ale to keep it from being upended when someone's shoved onto a neighboring table, just in case something bumps into hers. Glass breaks. A pewter mug rolls around underneath her chair, and Ciri lifts her boots out of the way, staring at the ceiling and silently asking it to grant her a bit of extra patience.

Yes, she'd been here for the tournament. But she hasn't been left with any sort of good impression. Now, the two finalists squabbling like mannerless little street urchins leaves her even less impressed, and already making plans to just finish her ale and not return to this particular tavern again. Even having made a couple coins betting on the obvious winner (she's not fooled by the larger man's muscles; the idiot was slow, and not just in the head), it's not enough to be worth the trouble. Participating had been tempting until she saw how paltry the competition was.

Now if only she could just... finish her goddamn ale in peace.

The smaller man turns to leave, and Ciri hears the tell-tale hiss of steel moving through leather. ]

...oh, for fuck's sake.

[ She mutters, annoyed that she's accidentally chosen the table right next to these buffoons, and that she can't in good conscience ignore the lout raising his sword to the back of his unarmed opponent. Just her luck.

The angry soldier charges, and Ciri--

Sticks out her leg. And trips him. She's watching that sword closely, ready to divert the blade if the soldier loses his grip on it. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[open;] if the dust in my pocket were silver or gold

[open] pre-tournament;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

hey! sry for the slow responses, im in DIY hell irl atm. I'm not losing interest in the thread tho!

hey no worries! take as long as you need, I can keep. And me neither!

Thanks!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

[open] post-tournament

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

[closed;] ciri

no subject